“It was fated, Soen,” the Grahn Aur shrugged. “It seems it was fated that Braun should find your staff in the haunted mists of the Shrouded Plain. It was fated that the gateway to the Mournful Road should present itself. Do you not see the hand of the gods in these events?”
“I do not believe in the gods,” Soen sneered.
“And yet you served their purposes today.”
“I did not,” Soen snapped. “It was that strange Braun human who found my staff and opened that impossible fold!”
The Grahn Aur chuckled again. “Braun was always that way . . . especially in the end. We all thought we had lost him at the Ninth Throne—believed he had cost us the prize when he actually showed us the way. Drakis didn’t understand—perhaps he still does not.”
Soen caught his breath.
“Yes, Soen,” the manticore smiled, baring his own sharp teeth. “We have been looking for each other. Grahn Aur is my title . . .”
“But your name is Belag,” Soen finished.
The manticore nodded and then stood. “And I have come to ask for your help.”
Soen stood up as well, his dead Matei staff on the floor at his side. “You want my help?”
“Yes,” Belag said. “We need you to find Drakis.”
CHAPTER 26
Hospitality of the Khadush
“I’VE DEALT WITH A great many manticores in my life,” Soen said, tilting his elongated head slightly to the left as he considered Belag with his cold, black eyes. “I do not recall meeting any with such an odd sense of humor.”
“And I have never met an elf that had a sense of humor, let alone one who could recognize one when he saw it,” Belag returned through a wide smile that bared his teeth. “And yet here we are; me entertaining in my own tent the Iblisi assassin who tried so desperately to hunt me down, and you the Inquisitor wondering why the very slave he sought to destroy has offered the protection of his tent and the request of his services.”
“Something like that,” Soen said with a slight nod, and then turned back to studying his dead Matei staff.
“It is because we both need the same thing,” Belag said. “We both need Drakis—and we both need each other to find him.”
Belag stood up slowly and walked to the side of the large tent. An ornate, low table sat there, several large pewter mugs carefully placed at one end while at the opposite end a half keg filled with snow surrounded a tall glass carafe. The manticore pulled the carafe free and poured clear water into two of the mugs.
“One of the older Khadush boys overheard me one day as I reminisced fondly about drinking cold, clear water from a high mountain stream,” Belag said as he picked up the mugs and turned back toward the elf. “It was only three days later that this appeared in my tent. Imagine it: young manticores charging across the landscape and up to the tops of the high mountains, gathering the ice and snows from their summits and the water from their glacial lakes only to charge back over forty leagues—their prized snow melting all the way—to set this water here just so that I might drink it while it was still fresh and cold.”
Belag offered one of the mugs to Soen.
“I’ve tried to get them to stop—told them it is unnecessary and wrong,” Belag continued. “But they keep doing it anyway. Why is that, do you suppose?”
Belag continued to offer the mug to the elf, but Soen remained where he squatted, his black eyes staring up at the manticore. Belag shrugged, then set the mug down in front of Soen. He again sat down cross-legged in front of the elf, drinking with long satisfaction from his own mug.
“Well, I like to think it’s because they finally have something in which they can believe,” Belag continued, answering his own question. “They are filled with energy and enthusiasm. They hope to be part of something better than themselves and meaningful. They are looking for purpose in their existence—so they fulfill my idle wish whatever the cost.”
“Then you are just another master to their slavery,” Soen replied. “They’ve only exchanged one tyrant for another.”
“I am not their master,” Belag said with a quiet rumble in his voice. “I serve them.”
“A servant of the masses, then?” Soen sneered. “So sounds the first note of every tyrant’s song who ever strutted upon the stage of history.”
Belag gazed at the renegade Iblisi for a time and then said, “I would have thought even the elves better mannered than to insult their host in their host’s own tent. However, as you have not attempted to kill me thus far, I must assume that we do need one another after all.”
Soen ran his tongue over his sharp teeth, considering. “You would be foolish to think that my bite was found only in this staff.”
Belag smiled and nodded. “And you would be foolish to think that I was ever truly alone.”
Soen nodded in his turn.
“We can help each other,” Belag said. “We may have different reasons, and we most certainly have different objectives, but whatever ends we have in mind, we both want Drakis back.”
“I assume you have a plan,” Soen said.
“Yes,” Belag answered, standing up once more. “I must leave you now, but Vendis will explain it to you.”
Soen bared his teeth as he looked up, his long, pointed ears flattening back against his head as he spoke. “I would be delighted to have Vendis explain a few things to me.”
Vendis held open the flap with both his right arms, as he invited Soen to step out of the Grahn Aur’s tent.
The Iblisi outcast blinked against the sudden brightness around him as his eyes adjusted to the wide, open sky that stretched overhead. Only a few, wispy clouds marred its vibrant blue as it stretched over the landscape of gently rolling low hills. The Grahn Aur’s tent had been pitched on the tallest of these, giving a magnificent view of the countryside.
Soen turned around slowly, taking it all in. To the south, he could see that they were about half a league away from the crumbling fold platform they had arrived on the night before. Beyond that, far in the distance, stood the deep purple, haze-obscured peaks of the northernmost tip of the Mournful Mountains.
Everywhere else . . . for at least five leagues in every direction . . . the hills were dotted with tents, wagons, temporary stock pens, and the ebb and flow of manticores, gnomes, chimerians, and even elves and humans.
Thousands upon thousands of them.
They were, for the most part, made up of children and the elderly, but there was no mistaking in Soen’s mind what he was looking at.
This was an army—or at least the potential for one—which the Legions of the Emperor’s Will would never allow to survive.
“I see you are still carrying your staff,” Vendis said, his elastic face consciously pulled into as pleasant a form as possible.
“Force of habit,” Soen offered though he knew better. The Aether may have been completely drained from the staff, but in his hands it could still be a most effective weapon. The elf lifted his chin toward the sprawling encampment around them. “How many are there?”
Vendis gazed out over the hills. “Fifty thousand . . . perhaps closer to sixty-five thousand by now. More are arriving every day, and it is proving impossible to keep an accurate count.”
“Accurate count or not, you’re a victim of your own successes,” Soen said. “How long can you feed this rabble?”
Vendis did not answer immediately, apparently considering what or how much he should say.
“How long, Vendis?”
“Three . . . perhaps four weeks with rationing.”
Soen nodded. “The Imperial Legions are wasting their time. They don’t need to come north to destroy you . . . they only need to let you starve yourselves to death.”
“We have been negotiating with the Nordesian goblins,” Vendis said, “but they are reluctant to move against Rhonas. Their city-states are governed by local warlords and their allegiance to each other is only bound by their mutual hatred for the elves—no offense.”
“None ta
ken,” Soen sniffed.
“Still, they are practical enough to know not to start a fight that they aren’t absolutely sure they can win,” Vendis continued. “We get the feeling they’re watching—waiting for something to change before they choose sides.”
“No doubt they’re also watching Ephindria,” Soen said casually. “You chimerians have not been entirely forthcoming about your own position regarding the Rhonas Imperium.”
“Our nation is our family,” Vendis replied.
Soen smiled inwardly. It was the uniform response from any chimerian whenever they were asked about anything taking place within their own borders. Ephindria had drawn itself into a deep isolation from the rest of the continent and seldom engaged in any trade, commerce, or communication beyond that which was absolutely necessary to be left alone. Chimerians were found to be relatively common throughout the Empire, even in Rhonas Chas itself, but universally they were silent about anything going on within the opaque borders of their homeland.
“So it seems we have found the ‘prophet’ after all,” Soen continued.
“It is what you wanted,” Vendis said with a nervous laugh.
“And what is it that you want from me,” Soen asked. “That Braun Proxi managed a rather impressive feat by plucking most of your fellow pilgrims out of the Shrouded Plain and dropping them here—thanks to his borrowing my staff . . .”
Vendis’ face fell slightly at the mention of Braun’s name. Soen noted the chimerian’s uncertainty about the human. Vendis seemed as uncomfortable with the thought of Braun as Soen was himself.
“. . . But I cannot see that it has done your cause much good. You cannot hide over sixty thousand beings in the open and not be discovered. The Legions will find you—and most likely will be preparing to obliterate all traces of you within two weeks at the most. Even if the Legions decide to forget their campaign entirely, you’ll all most likely starve to death within a month without help.”
“We have a plan,” Vendis offered.
“Ah, yes . . . which, no doubt, is where I come in.”
“We’ve been negotiating with the goblin warlords of Nordesia.”
“To do what?”
“Cross the Erebus Straits,” Vendis said quickly. “We’ll flee northward into the lands of Drakosia—where Drakis has gone.”
“You’re going to leave Aeria for the northlands,” Soen said with skepticism. “Sixty thousand of you? Just how many ships do you have?”
“We’re negotiating for fifteen—maybe more.”
“If you’re using trade galleys out of Thetis Bay,” Soen said as he considered the problem out loud, “then they will probably hold about a hundred, maybe a few more in transport across the straits. Then, too, you’ll have to find a suitable landing where you can set up and survive. I make that out to be about two crossings per ship each month not accounting for weather and losses.”
“That seems about right,” Vendis agreed.
“Then, by my figures, it will take you only a year and a half to transport your entire pilgrim band to your new world,” Soen said. “And, simplifying your problem further will be the fact that all of your passengers will be dead long before the year and a half is over. Think of the savings. None of them will have to eat during the voyage.”
Vendis shook his head. “No. We can live that long if we have the help of the goblins in Nordesia.”
“Nordesia?” Soen laughed. “You must be joking!”
“We have reason to believe they will shelter us and barter for supplies long enough for us to make the crossing and establish our own crops,” Vendis said. “They like the story of Drakis and would like to support us . . .”
“But . . .” Soen urged.
“But they need proof that this Drakis exists,” Vendis continued. “So, while they may not be willing to openly side with us, they will trade to outfit a ship for you, a crew, and provisions.”
“And just where is it that you want me to take this expedition?” Soen asked.
“You were tracking Belag before with the help of beacon stones,” Vendis said. “The ones that led you to follow Belag eastward out of Nothree.”
“Yes,” Soen sighed. “What of them?”
“I have since learned that they were dropped by someone in our company—a type of slave they called a Seinar,” Vendis continued. “The elves tell me that such a person is compelled to continue dropping those stones until the last three remain with them. Is this not so?”
“Yes, so far as it goes,” Soen answered. “The beacon stones do not work on the water.”
“But you could track them once they made shore again,” Vendis said.
Soen considered for a moment, continuing to turn the drained and powerless staff in his hands. The chimerian was right and it galled him. He needed the help of these delusional fanatics if he was ever to recover Drakis and sort out the quagmire he found himself in. The question for the elven Inquisitor was just how much deeper into this mess he would have to sink before finding his way back out.
“Yes, I could,” Soen said, turning to look at the chimerian. “But I would need the staff recharged before that would even be possible.”
“Which would require an Aether Well,” Vendis nodded. “You are an elf of tremendous talents, Soen. We can get you into Port Glorious. We can get you across the Straits of Erebus and into Drakosia. Belag said that was where Drakis was being called by the Dragon Song when he left. You get back onto land in Drakosia—and I’ve no doubt that you can take care of the rest from there.”
Soen considered again for a moment. Port Glorious was anything but what its name implied. He had never been there and from what he did know about it, had hoped never to go. The farthest northern outpost of the Rhonas Imperium, Port Glorious was little more than a collection of elven dwellings crammed within the walls of a fortress on the northern shore of Mistral Bay. No folds terminated there or anywhere within five hundred leagues of its gates. The port was supplied largely by sea via the occasional and entirely irregular arrival of Imperial ships from Port Dog or Shellsea. It was, above all, the place where the Emperor sent the most loyal of his citizens whose names he wished to forget.
“So your plan is to have me walk into an elven fortress, recharge my staff, sail across the straits to a different continent and just—‘find’—Drakis and bring him back?”
“Essentially . . . well, yes.”
“And if I were to kill him when I found him?”
“You need him alive—and you need us to get there and back again.”
“And what if I don’t come back,” Soen said.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll come back,” Vendis said. “You’re an elf of honor who will keep your bargain.”
Soen laughed. “You really don’t know elves very well at all, do you?”
“Oh, I’m not worried about you remembering our deal,” Vendis said, his blank face contorting into a smile once again.
Soen restrained the urge to rearrange the chimerian’s rubbery features. “Indeed, and why not?”
“Because,” Vendis said through his smile, “I’m going with you to make sure you don’t forget. We should be ready to leave within three days’ time—then there won’t be a moment to lose after that.”
“Another well-thought-out scheme,” Soen said dryly, “Three weeks. One week to get there. Perhaps another week to get back. That leaves us an entire week of our own to find Drakis on a different continent.”
Soen looked across the vast assembly around them and wondered if he were looking at the dead who had not yet realized that they were already doomed.
“You had better hope that Drakis likes the seashore,” Soen said.
CHAPTER 27
Cascade
JUGAR REACHED DOWN with his crutch as he lay in the boat, his back against the reed side, and tried desperately to get at the spot that itched underneath the splint on his leg. He did not dare sit up higher in the little craft on the planks lashed as benches across the two sides of the b
oat as the others used them. Being aboard Urulani’s ship had been hazardous enough but these small boats were outright dangerous in his mind. They felt as though they would overturn at a mere suggestion. His temper was not helped by the fact that water had come into the boat over the sides when he and the chimerian boarded from the little spit of an island where they had made camp the night before. Ishander seemed to know where the islands were on the river and had stated a clear preference for spending the night in the middle of the river rather than on either of its shores—a suggestion with which the dwarf heartily agreed. But the water in the bottom of the boat was now sloshing most uncomfortably around his buttocks, renewing his discomfort with every rock of the boat.
How had he, Jugar, come to this? He had seen the advantage clearly enough on the verge of Vestasia. All he had to do was promote this Drakis human as the great one of the prophecy, convince enough gullible people that it was so, and allow the chaos to happen without drawing any further attention to himself. He relished the idea of keeping himself as anonymous as possible in all of this because, as the old dwarven saying went, vengeance is forged best on the heels of astonishment. They had come all the way to ancient Drakosia on that Urulani woman’s boat, but Jugar had figured it would all add to the myth, so he endured the voyage. Then they would come to the God’s Wall—if they found it at all—poke about, and return to Nordesia or Vestasia or pick any other country ending with an “a” and Jugar could pick up the tale again—adding a wonderful bit about returning from the ancient land of the humans as the prophecies had clearly foretold.
But then everything went terribly wrong; they had actually found dragons.
Jugar frowned as water sloshed up his rump again.
It was Ethis the chimerian who had put him in this situation and ruined all his lovely plans.
Jugar looked up at the chimerian, who knelt in the front of the boat, leaning against the upturned curve of the reed prow. They were paired again in the middle boat. Drakis sat in the front with Mala and their Far-runner guide—a whelp of a boy whom Jugar suspected had plans of his own. Behind them in the trailing boat, Urulani stood at the stern while the Lyric sang an endless series of nonsensical songs. These seemed to make the warrior woman’s features more dour than usual. Shouting between the boats was discouraged, and no doubt with good cause, as there was far too much movement among the shadows of both riverbanks for the dwarf’s liking.
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